Publications
Partners
Deep sigh.
I’ll probably get up and go get some food, or at least something to satiate the burly monster lurking in my belly.
A belly, mind you, that is large and hairy and has curves in all the wrong places.
If there was a six-pack beneath the dome with a hole, it would look like a bird’s eye view of the seats of The Dome during one of the many concerts held there – lots of noise and hullabaloo on the inside and all circle on the outside.
I digress.
It’s been a while since I’ve stopped eating today, but that’s acceptable because it is Eid. A festival of food, well for one but now for both too.
READ: Editorial | Do not believe the lies about Covid-19 vaccine
Eid ul Adha, the sacrifice festival. Where Abraham nearly murdered his son for the sake of a higher being that he believed so devotedly in.
This Eid is different.
People have died, and people will die. A health crisis has been raging the world over and for as long as I can remember, today was the first time I did not listen to the Eid sermon. From Musina to the Cape, I have heard every sermon on an Eid day for at least the past 25 years.
With the lockdown in South Africa continuing, gatherings have been banned. But that didn’t stop the smell of hate that emanated from the mouths, even if it was just hints and notes and not black and white, sadly not uncommon for Eid chitter chatter.
But I digress again.
The sermons are usually a pep talk for the devout and a truth bomb for some, while a rite of passage for most Muslim children, and, in South Africa especially, a male-only gathering.
After Eid salah, we usually go home or to the cemetery before either indulging in the feasts of Fitr (the Eid after Muslim’s fast for 30 or so days) or going to the farm as a family initially (this Eid), before my mum and gran got older.
READ: Dashiki | Those who refuse a Covid jab could kill me
After the sermon, however, the first thing we always did after we listened to the imam talk about sacrifice was to go home and receive the blessings of mum and gran. Both matriarchs would confer their choicest prayers for your health, wealth and life. It was divine.
Today, we missed that. Eid was still joyous and still held reverence with (immediate) family and friends (virtually) and the weird trip to the farm.
But as I write this, I can’t help wondering what we as a collective have sacrificed since the lockdown started. I don’t have the answers, and by the Lord of Ibrahim and Ismail, I am sure we all have our own thoughts and answers. But for now, I will sacrifice that food I was planning to get at this late hour of 3am.
The tenderest of slow-cooked pot roast leg of lamb with all the trappings of sauce and mini potatoes lathered in sour cream, the roti and purri glinting in the sheen of their ghee and fried oil, respectively, while the mini corn on the cob with its buttery exterior and lustrous sheen sit among an assortment of other delights of the garden.
Instead, I’ll go for a sip of water. The Dome with a Hole could use a few hours of reprieve lest we make the circle bigger. Maybe it’s the small sacrifices that all the hurrah was about.
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
 |
